"To get that corn of yours ground, and beat Sally home."

"Well, Squire," Reverdy said, "I reckon you're right." He came out into
the open space where Braile sat. "Well, I won't fergit _this_
breakfast very soon," he offered his gratitude to Mrs. Braile over his
shoulder, as he passed through the door.

"You're welcome, Abel," she answered kindly, and when he had made his
manners to the impassive Squire and mounted his claybank and thumped the
horse into motion with his naked heels, she came out into the porch and
said to her husband, "I don't know as I liked your hinting him out of the
house that way."

Braile did not take the point up, but remained thoughtfully smiling in
the direction his guest had taken. "The idea is that most people marry
their opposites," he remarked, "and that gives the children the advantage
of inheriting their folly from two kinds of fools. But Abel and Sally are
a perfect pair, mental and moral twins; the only thing they don't agree in
is their account of what became of that snorting exhorter. But the
difference there isn't important. If an all-wise Providence has kept them
from transmitting a double dose of the same brand of folly to posterity,
that's one thing in favor of Providence." He took up his wife's point now.
"If I hadn't hinted him away, he'd have stayed to dinner; _you_
wouldn't have hinted him away if he'd stayed to supper."

"Well, are you going to have some breakfast?" his wife asked. "I'll get
you some fresh coffee."

"Well, I _would_ like a little--with the head on--Martha, that's a